


Geography of the Soul

by starsinursa



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Descriptions of Dean's soul, Ficlet, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Metaphors, Sappy, so many metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-27 05:47:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9979103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsinursa/pseuds/starsinursa
Summary: "Cas. Tell me more about my soul."





	

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to try describing what a human soul would look like, and this little ficlet was born. Tons of metaphors like woah, sorry about that, but I don't know how else to describe something incorporeal like a soul. I definitely had fun coming up with the metaphors though. :)
> 
> I'm also on [Tumblr.](https://starsinursa.tumblr.com/)

_“There is an internal landscape, a geography of the soul; we search for its outlines all our lives.”_  
\- Josephine Hart

___________________________________

Dean’s soul.

Thinking about it makes Castiel’s lips turn up into a smile, almost unconsciously. It makes his heart rate speed up and his grace tremble.

Dean’s soul in Hell when Castiel finally found him after forty years of searching. Dean’s soul during the quiet moments behind the wheel of the Impala when there’s nothing but empty road ahead. Dean’s soul churning when he’s angry and hurting, lashing out. Dean’s soul at the peak of his ecstasy, brimming over, lighting him up from the inside like a firework.

Dean’s soul is…beautiful. And flawed. But resilient. Frayed at the edges like a well-loved blanket, but shining through with an immutable light.

Dean’s soul is a pillar of rock, standing steadfast against the ocean waves that break against him, wearing him down and simultaneously smoothing his rough edges.

Dean’s soul is the feeling of clasped hands, and the emptiness between fingers. Dean’s soul is frigid air in the lungs on a winter night, but also the coarse rasp of hot desert sand beneath bare feet. Dean’s soul is a bird in flight, forever circling the same mountain.

It’s frustrating. None of these descriptions sound right to Castiel.

Dean’s soul is… an oak tree. Yes – an oak tree with deep roots anchoring him in the past, building the foundation for the man he has become, but also preventing him from ever truly moving forward. Dean’s soul is a tree with boughs battered and broken by the storms passing through his life, and there are places where the leaves are stripped bare and the bark is peeling, but he is still forever growing and reaching towards the sun. The shade from his outstretched arms shields his loved ones, the few people privileged enough to be allowed close under his shelter. His back acts as a windbreak, diverting the gales that come tearing through and threaten to sweep them away. He submits himself to the elements but remains upright, determined, desperate, wounded, resolute.

And more than anything, Castiel wants to rest in the shade of that tree. He’s an angel, although a poor one, and he’s supposed to be strong… but he wants to climb up into the branches of Dean’s soul and rest there, safe and enveloped. But even more than he wants to find peace in Dean’s presence, he wants to provide peace – to stroke the wilted leaves back to life between his fingers, to run his palms along the broken limbs and lend them strength. He wants to pour himself between Dean’s parched roots like water, filling up the cracks, stopping up the holes, seeking out each dark corner until no part is left unknown or untouched or unloved.

He wants to grip Dean’s soul tight but never let go this time. The world could crumble away millennia from now and still they would find Castiel, tucked tight around Dean’s soul, spreading himself like a balm over the wounds.

Sometimes Castiel tries to express all this to Dean. Words are so limiting, but he tries. He hopes he does an adequate job.

And sometimes Dean takes him up on his offer. Dean is desperate and urgent, soaking up everything Castiel offers and wordlessly demanding more, demanding everything. His nails bite crescents into Castiel’s shoulders and Castiel returns the sentiment with his teeth, but still Dean demands more – harder, faster, closer. Dean’s legs are like an cage around Castiel’s hips, heels digging painfully into his back, but Castiel doesn’t even spare a thought for it. They’re rising on a crescendo like the trumpets of angels. When it peaks, he locks his arms around Dean’s waist, buries his face into the juncture of his neck, and offers everything he has. He pours into Dean’s soul like a sudden spring rain – filling up the cracks, leaving no dark corner unknown or untouched or unloved.

Afterwards, Dean may need to sleep, but Castiel doesn’t. For a long time, he lies still and listens to gentle tides of Dean’s breathing move in and out. Finally Dean stirs, his hand seeking Castiel’s in the dark.

_“Cas.”_

It’s more a sigh than his name, barely audible, slipping out on a breath.

_“…tell me more about my soul.”_

Castiel murmurs truths in his ear all night long.


End file.
